“But we’re no bairnies, Cosmo, an’ I daurna--even to you ’at I wad trust like the Bible. Tell me what it is, an’ gien I may, I wull.” “It’s no muckle atween you an’ me, Aggie. It’s only this--’at gien ever ye fa’ in love wi’ onybody, ye’ll lat me ken.” Agnes was silent for a moment; then, with a tremble in her voice, which in vain she sought to smooth out, and again turning her head away, answered: “Cosmo, I daurna.” “I want naething mair,” said Cosmo, thinking she must have misapprehended, “nor the promise ’at what ye ken I sail ken. I wad fain be wi’ ye at sic a time.” “Cosmo,” said Aggie with much solemnity, “there’s ane at’s aye at han’, ane that sticketh closer nor a brither. The thing ye require o’ me, micht be what a lass could tell to nane but the father o’ her--him ’at’s in haiven.” Cosmo was silenced, as indeed it was time and reason he should be; for had she been his daughter, he would have had no right to make such a request of her. He did it in all innocence, and might well have asked her to tell him, but not to promise to tell him. He did not yet understand however that he was wrong, and was the more troubled about her, feeling as if, for the first time in their lives, Aggie and he had begun to be divided. They entered the kitchen. Aggie hastened to help Grizzie lay the cloth for supper. Her grandfather looked up with a smile from the newspaper he was reading in the window. The laird, who had an old book in his hand, called out, “Here, Cosmo! jist hearken to this bit o’ wisdom, my man--frae a hert doobtless praisin’ God this mony a day in higher warl’s:--‘He that would always know before he trusts, who would have from his God a promise before he will expect, is the slayer of his own eternity.’” The words mingled strangely with what had just passed between him and Agnes. Both they and that gave him food for thought, but could not keep him awake. The bailiff continued to haunt the goings and comings of Agnes, but few supposed his attentions acceptable to her. Cosmo continued more and less uneasy. The harvest was over at length, and the little money earned mostly laid aside for the sad winter, once more on its way. But no good hope dies without leaving a child, a younger and fresher hope, behind it. The year’s fruit must fall that the next year’s may come, and the winter is the only way to the spring. CHAPTER XLV. THE FINAL CONFLICT.